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breaking in half. "Damn!" the man cried, "God damn!"
He flung the piece of broken club into the dark mass of
weeds by the lane.

The dog moaned again, and again tried to shove itself
along the ground.

"Can't somebody find something?" the man demanded
fretfully.

The other two men stirred about, feeling along the ground
with their feet or bending over.

" A chunk of rock, or something," the man said.

" God damn it, it's too dark," somebody exclaimed.

The dog kept on moaning. The horses were moving
restively.

"We can't stand around all night," another man com-
plained.

"Aw, hell!" one of the men on the ground said in a tone
of fatalistic disgust, and moved toward the dog. He withdrew
his hand from his pocket. There was a faint click. The man
was opening a knife. He leaned forward, over the dog,
pushed the head back with one foot, thrust the blade down-
ward and then jerked it sidewise. He straightened up, peering
at the mass on the ground before him. He had cut the dog's
throat. He stepped to the side of the lane, and bent over to
drive the blade of the frog-sticker into the earth, time after
time, to clean off the blood. Then he shut the knife, and
dropped it into his pocket.

Somebody else had takjn the dog by the hind legs and had
dragged it into the weeds. The men moved up the lane, single
file. The paleness of the dust of the lane was visible before
them. They walked their horses on the side of the lane away
from the field of tobacco. On the side by the field there were
no trees or brush. On the side where they moved, a scraggly
row of trees made a deeper darkness. Mr. Munn stared across
at the tobacco field. It was too dark now to make out any-
thing over there, but he thought how the spindly, miserable
plants had looked and how he had felt when he saw them.
Now he felt nothing.